"If you hear anything weird tonight, wake me up, okay? DiShawn drove by three times tonight really slowly, and he knows how much money in guns I have in the house. That's why I'm taking this one upstairs tonight." He pointed to a handgun in its case.
Great. just frickin' great. I've mentioned before how I'm terrified of the dark, but now I actually have someone solid to fear. And that person wants my husband's guns?! Holy, friggin' crap! Not good. not good at all.
About four o'clock this morning, I heard a thud, followed by two more. Not the furnace, not the cats wrestling... I wasn't sure what it was. Remembering Bear's caution, I put my hand on his shoulder and woke him up. "Honey, I just heard three bangs. It sounded like someone kicking the front door, or maybe trying to get into the garage." Bear, groggy with sleep, listened. He didn't hear anything. A good sport, though, he grabbed the handgun and went downstairs in the dark. He can see in the dark better than anyone I know.
There was no one there.
After a few minutes, he came back upstairs, unloaded the gun and got back into bed. "Sorry, Hon. I really did hear something. And you told me to tell you if I heard anything."
He sighed. "I know I did. go back to sleep."
Easier said than done. We both laid in the dark for over an hour, trying to get back to sleep. It was much harder than I thought - I kept imagining scenes where DiShawn or someone else would break in, and how Bear and I would react. I came to the unflattering conclusion that I would probably run away and hide and let my husband take care of it. Honestly. It wasn't a flattering realization.
At about five o'clock, I heard the banging noise again. Thankfully, Bear heard it too. "Was that the noise you heard?" he asked. I nodded. "Four times this time."
Again, he went downstairs, and again he didn't find anything. He looked outside, checked all the doors... nothing. As he was climbing the stairs again, the sound happened again. "Was that what you heard?" He asked.
"Yes! That's it!" I said.
He threw me a disgusted look. "It's the cats, hon, digging at their litter box." Zedd, the giantest of all cats, picks up the litter box and throws it around instead of just digging in the litter itself.
"Oh." I said. "Sorry."
As we left the house this morning, locking the door for the first time ever, I looked towards Bear's car. "Your door's not shut tight, Hon. Did someone get into your car?"
"Bear sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry I even said anything. You need to stop worrying!" I looked askance at him. "You told me to tell you, so I did. Don't be mad at me!"
"I'm not mad. But you really need to get control."
He's right. I do. But how? I'm terrified by the possibility of not being safe in my own home, whether the threat is real or imagined. I hate it, but can't seem to change it. Any ideas?